


of ice cream and habaneros

by orphan_account



Series: Cooking Club [1]
Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking Club, Established Relationship, I tried to be funny, M/M, dating since middle school sormiks are the best sormiks, jazz hands, might write more for this universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:51:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Looks like this is it,” Sorey whispers. His chest heaves with the effort of drawing breath as his surroundings blur. Pain washes over him in waves and the tears that threaten finally spill and soak into dry concrete. He clenches his hands into fists against the ground and does his best to smile—which is a mistake, because the fire in his mouth spreads to the cracks in his lips and—oh, god, he’s going to <i>die</i>-</p>
            </blockquote>





	of ice cream and habaneros

**Author's Note:**

  * For [velvetcrowbars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcrowbars/gifts).



“Looks like this is it,” Sorey whispers. His chest heaves with the effort of drawing breath as his surroundings blur. Pain washes over him in waves and the tears that threaten finally spill and soak into dry concrete. He clenches his hands into fists against the ground and does his best to smile—which is a mistake, because the fire in his mouth spreads to the cracks in his lips and—oh, god, he’s going to _die_ -

“I can’t believe you ate the fucking pepper,” Mikleo says, crouching at his shoulder. He presses a cool bottle of water to Sorey’s neck to get his attention and shakes his head when his boyfriend of seven years falls onto his back in the middle of a busy campus walkway. “And I can’t believe you let him.” He glares at Lailah, who stands behind the Cooking Club’s booth crunching away at a handful of habaneros.

She swallows, tells him, “He insisted,” with faked innocence before handing Mikleo a small plastic cup of his own ice cream. “This might work better,” she says, eyeing Sorey as he chokes on the water he’s chugging.

“I have so many regrets,” he whimpers. Mikleo shoves a spoonful of strawberry ice cream into his mouth before he can say anything else. Crowds of students, mostly freshmen, part around Sorey where he lies. Mikleo hears someone whisper, “ _Is that guy crying_?” and tries not to think about the reputation they’ll gain from Sorey’s awful decision-making skills.

“Yo.” Zaveid breaks through a crowd of onlookers, stops short when he sees Sorey’s face. “What happened to Feathers?” Sorey scowls at him, but it’s lost its effectiveness—the front of his shirt is soaked and there’s pink ice cream smeared on his face and tears still falling from his eyes.

“Zaveid!” Lailah pulls a bundle of cloth from beneath the counter and tosses it into his arms. “Wear this and go give out samples.”

He looks at the frilled, lacey thing in his hands and glances at Sorey. _Did he refuse the apron and get punished for it_? he wonders as Mikleo stands and maneuvers Sorey out the way of careless feet. “Why me?”

“If you’re going to walk around shirtless,” Mikleo says, “Do so while advertising our club.”

Zaveid sneers. “I’m not even in your stupid-“

“Yes, yes,” Lailah interrupts, pushing a platter of ice cream and finger-sandwiches onto him. “You just hang around for the food. Go poach by the Craft Club’s table.”

His eyes brighten like sixty-watts. If there were one hobby Zaveid hates most on God’s green earth, it’s arts and crafts. Something about yarn and cornhusk dolls makes him want to throw a chair out a window even more than usual, which is already significant enough to make his psychologist frown. 

So Zaveid rushes off to make war with pipe-cleaners and googly eyes, Lailah’s apron swishing merrily about his knees. “Hey!” he yells, low and growling. Mystified freshmen watch him stride by, impressed; he’s loud and rough and remarkably attractive with just an apron over his bare chest. “Who wants some fuckin’ food?”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Mikleo says, and sighs for what feels like the hundredth time that day. He can’t believe he’d worried about _Sorey_ ruining the club’s image when Zaveid _exists_.

Sorey licks his spoon as Zaveid reaches the Craft Club. “Right? He’s awful.”

Mikleo ignores the startled screams from down the lane and smiles at a girl as she approaches their stand. He mutters, “You’re not much better,” out the side of his mouth. Sorey huffs.

“Hi,” Lailah’s saying, greeting the short girl who’s inspecting the food they’ve laid out. Sorey grumbles and climbs to his feet, tries to throw his ice cream cup in the recycling bin a few yards away. Mikleo hides his face in his hands when it ricochets off the lid and into an unsuspecting stranger’s face.

“…hello,” the girl says after an awkward pause that robs at least three months from Mikleo’s life.

“Would you like to try some?” Mikleo asks, gesturing to his ice cream.

“No, thank you.” She twirls her parasol and turns her head to the side. “I saw him-“ she points to Sorey, who’s apologizing profusely to his victim, “-crying while eating it, and now I’m afraid.” Her voice is flat but her eyes shine with something Mikleo thinks might be wicked humor.

“Ah, well, you see-“

“Oh!” Lailah makes a surprised sound and raises her hand to cover her mouth. “Are you—are you Edna?”

Edna smiles—it’s a small thing, curled, easily mistaken as sarcastic. “I am,” she says. “You’re Lailah.” It isn’t a question.

Mikleo looks between them, then to Sorey as he returns to his place at his side. “Do you know her?” Mikleo asks in a low voice, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“No.” Sorey leans into him, wraps an arm around his waist. He smells vaguely of pepper and strawberry. “I wonder who she is.”

“I knew your brother,” Lailah says, and Mikleo has a feeling it’s unnecessary. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the wind picks up. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Ah,” Mikleo breathes. He’s dropped his own arm around Sorey’s waist and plays with the end of his shirt as he thinks. “Do you remember-“

“-that guy, yeah,” Sorey finishes. He frowns.

“Thank you,” Edna says. She seems so strong for such a little person that Mikleo tries to search for words to—comfort, normalize. But, before he can say any of the dozen platitudes poised on his tongue, she picks a cup of ice cream and asks, looking him straight in the eye, “Did you make this?”

“Yep!” Sorey answers for him, putting on his best grin. “Mikleo’s really good at frozen stuff,” he adds, and leans to grab another cup. “Too bad these’re all strawberry…”

Mikleo swats his hand. “Too bad, huh.” Sorey whines, wounded. “Try some,” he tells Edna, smiling.

“All right. Thanks.” She carves into it with a small plastic spoon, hums appreciatively when it melts on her tongue. “It’s good,” she says, and Mikleo preens.

“You should consider joining,” Lailah says. “We meet every week for an hour or more and cook.”

“It’s a lot of fun.” Sorey smiles. The afternoon sunlight falls in dapples all around him, catches his green eyes; he’s a perfect picture of glad youth and it must be contagious, because Edna nods like she’s considering becoming one of Them, The Cooking Club, Arch-Nemeses of Arts and Crafts.

She leaves with a wave and a sandwich in her free hand, pushing into the throng until she and her yellow parasol are gone. The campus tower’s bell rings four p.m. and Lailah gathers her things.

“Okay,” she says, “You two manage this while I’m gone.” She shifts her bag over her shoulder and sets off, but turns around before she gets very far. “Don’t let Zaveid do anything—well, you know.” Mikleo nods and she waves.

They spend the afternoon fueling Zaveid’s campaign with food they’d made last night at Lailah’s apartment. Mikleo and Sorey salvage whatever face they can, so whenever Rose and Alisha finally show, they’re entertaining a clump of kids with tales of their summer club trip to the ocean.

“So, we were stranded on an island, the sun was going down, and I was stuck in a tree with three pounds of beef—“

“Oh, wow,” Rose says, grinning. She unwraps her arm from where she’s tucked it in Alisha’s. “Don’t forget my favorite part.”

Sorey laughs. “Getting there. Anyways, Mikleo was trying to get me to throw the meat down (because priorities, right), and then Rose-“ he points her out, she waves, “-climbed up to get me loose.”

“But when she did,” Mikleo continues, “Sorey dropped the beef-“

“-and it hit Zaveid on the head.” The crowd laughs and Alisha shakes her head, lips turned fondly.

“Thank God Dezel dived for it,” Mikleo says. “It was an incredible roast. We’re hoping to do a whole pig next time.”

“So, if you’re into awesome adventures with lots of good food…” Sorey says, waving at their banner. Rose snags two cups of ice cream and hands one off to Alisha.

“We meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Alisha tells them. She exudes easy confidence and responsibility, like royalty, and their signup sheet grows by half a dozen names. Sorey peels away from Mikleo to talk French history with her, scavenging on leftovers as the sun hides in campus’ proud old oaks.

Zaveid returns sated, red craft-paint bloodshed buoying his steps. He’s forgotten about the apron, has it still tied around his waist when he climbs back into his truck. He picks at its pleats and fabric flowers and looks pensive when he asks, “Do you think Lailah wants it back?”

Mikleo can’t imagine— _won’t_ imagine, to save himself—how his old spurred boots and the classically sweet cooking apron will go together, but: “She probably meant for you to keep it, knowing her,” he says. “Though, I’m sure it comes with a price.”

Zaveid blinks. “Haah? How much? She knows I don’t have any money.” The truck creaks and bounces as Rose and Sorey load the back with empty coolers and the bones of their booth.

Mikleo smirks. “Oh, no. Not cash.” Sorey catches his drift and snickers. Zaveid squints. “You’re part of the club now,” he tells him, crossing his arms triumphantly, “and the apron’s proof.”

“Fuck-“

“Too late to back out,” Sorey says. He pulls the tailgate up and slaps its obnoxious-red side. “You’re one of us, man.”

“Fine, fine,” he relents. His mouth pulls into a nasty scowl but—he’s still wearing the apron. “Where do I take this shit, anyway?” He jacks a thumb to the bed of his truck.

“Oh!“ Rose pops up the passenger side door. Dezel stands quietly behind her. “Dezel said we can keep them in his garage.”

“All right.” Zaveid motions for her to open the door, which takes a minute and many powerful tugs. Dezel approaches cautiously, eyeing the shuddering, puttering heap of thin metal. Zaveid laughs. “Hop in, partner.”

Dezel half-turns, mouths _partner_ at Rose in despair. She pops her thumbs up at him and laughs.

The truck tears off in a cloud of exhaust and twanging music, Dezel’s face paling in the side view mirror as he leaves behind the calmer members of their club. The last they see of them is smeared red taillights and paint and maybe blood, actually, Mikleo thinks as pedestrians scramble out of the way.

“Well,” Sorey says, scratching his neck. Mikleo grins at him for no real reason—it’s an instinctual thing; he’s happy and the air’s warm and Sorey is, too, when he slides over and kisses his cheek.

“Well.” Rose stretches her arms above her head and sighs. “What now?”

Alisha looks up from her phone. “My place?”

Sorey and Mikleo share a look. “We’ll skip,” Sorey says, starting to walk backwards toward their car. He pulls Mikleo with him by the hand, heels scraping against asphalt, teeth glinting in the parking lot’s overheads.

“Gross,” Rose tells them, then grabs Alisha by an elbow. “How about coffee?” she asks, and the last Mikleo hears of them is small laughter and flowing voices and—

“Today was a good day, wasn’t it?” he muses.

Sorey swings their hands between them, fishing with his free one for keys. “A very good day,” he agrees, then thinks better. “Actually, would’ve been better without, you know, the whole habanero thing, but-“

“That was your own fault,” Mikleo says. He shakes his head. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Sorey scoffs, finds the keys, and presses a button. Their car’s horn beeps at them weakly from a few down. He unlocks the doors and shrugs, says, “You love me,” knowing it’s the best and only explanation.

Mikleo rolls his eyes and sinks into the driver’s seat. “Somehow.” The engine turns over and Sorey folds himself into the small space next to him, fiddling with the air.

Somewhere between Sorey asking _are you cold_? and the beginning soft strums of the CD he puts in, Mikleo realizes: of all the places he’s been, of all the times in which he’s existed, this completely ordinary moment in the cramped interior of their 2006 Subaru is—one of his favorites.

Sorey looks up from the dials, a question poised on his tongue, but just—stops when he sees Mikleo’s face. He smiles real slow, asks, “What?”

Mikleo blinks, catching himself a second too late. Sorey’s leaning over the console and into his personal space (which may or may not exist, according to Sorey—it’s still up for debate). Mikleo huffs, turning to face Sorey’s knowing gaze.

“Nothing,” he tells him, and Sorey’s eyes crinkle. “Just kiss me.”

 

So he does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> :>


End file.
